


Trigger Warning

by thesuninside



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Needs Therapy, Derek goes to therapy, Derek's Past Consent Issues with Kate, Hale Family Feels, M/M, No no people have to deal with their trauma, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Stiles also goes to therapy, Suicidal Thoughts, Texting, Therapy, Unrealistic depictions of therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-04 09:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11552430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesuninside/pseuds/thesuninside
Summary: Derek goes home to New York shortly after the nogitsune is dealt with.  He begins the long, slow climb toward mental health, and begins a text-based relationship with Stiles.  Stiles, who is struggling with very real issues of guilt and consent, is climbing his own mental health mountain.  Together, they'll try to make it.





	1. Getting Back to Good

**Author's Note:**

> There is frank discussion of suicidal ideation in this fic, though no one attempts the act.
> 
> Please let me know if I should add any warning or tags.
> 
> The characters get better through a relationship because this is a fanfic, not reality. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading. The second chapter should be out next week.

 

Therapy was expensive and it was only covered by insurance if he came out the other side of it with a diagnosis.  He didn't need a diagnosis; he elected to pay out of pocket.  Derek showed up for his first appointment with an anxiety in his chest he couldn't really quantify, and after ten minutes of talking, his therapist asked if they could meet three times a week for a  while.  Apparently saying, _I've been something like suicidal since I was fifteen and my girlfriend killed my whole family_ was alarming on its own, but add in things like _Then my sister was killed by my uncle.  And my girlfriend was a teacher.  And she slept with me to kill my family.  And later she caught me and chained me up and wouldn't stop_ touching me _and then my next girlfriend turned out to be a serial killer too._

 

Derek left feeling raw and uncertain that anything had been accomplished, but John Stilinski had talked him into this, and by god, he was going.  He went to therapy, walked back to the apartment Laura bought when they arrived in New York when Derek was eighteen (under pseudonyms--Derek's neighbors and everyone else knew him as Daniel Hardy), and read books or just held his cat quietly.  His cat, a giant gray thing with one orange eye, seemed consistently displeased with him, but would curl up between his chin and his shoulder like he was still the kitten Derek had heard in a trashcan and brought home. 

 

His therapist encouraged him to nurture his current relationships and connections, if they were healthy.  Derek held his cat and wondered what other connections he had, besides Odin, the grouchy tabby.  Odin seemed enough.  Odin was quiet and didn't demand too much of him.  Derek knew how to take care of Odin.  His neighbor, Samir, might be a connection, but Samir's nascent crush on Derek made him uncomfortable.  Samir was a good catsitter, anyway; Derek didn't want to interfere with that.

 

Derek thought about the kids in Beacon Hills a lot.  He thought about Cora, safely delivered to the airport on her way to her pack in South America.  She'd hugged him before he left and he tried not to be so hurt that she was no longer the little girl in his memory, the girl who'd loved him and stolen his Halloween candy and yelled when she didn't get a turn playing video games.  She was his sister, and he couldn't blame her for growing up to be a stranger.

 

He thought about Scott, who tried to do the right thing. Derek wanted Scott to succeed but didn't want to be a tool in Scott's hands again; he couldn't forget, or forgive, Gerard Argent.  The bite was a gift, and Scott had used it as a weapon.  He thought about Lydia and her fear; Allison and her grave; Jackson and his pain; Isaac and his desperation.  He hoped Scott would be good for Isaac.

 

Derek thought about Stiles.  And his hands, and his mouth, and his moles, and his sarcasm, and his scent, and his heartbeat, and . . .

 

So maybe it was a surprise to Derek, though it shouldn't have been, when Derek sent Stiles the first text message from his new phone, the old number having died with the burner he bought in Beacon Hills.  The phone he used was Daniel Hardy's iPhone.  He had a Verizon plan and everything.  **_Hey, Stiles.  It's Derek.  New number._**

 

There was a pause of about thirty seconds, then Derek sucked in a breath as the little window with the ellipsis popped up.  The answer he got back was short.  _Good to know you're alive._

 

Was there anger in the text?  Was that stupid?  Derek decided he was being stupid and sent back, **_Yeah.  I'm going to stay in New York for a while.  I hope you're okay._**

 

As soon as he sent it, he wanted to erase the last sentence.  The little green ellipsis told him he was too late.  Stiles' reply came:  _It's funny how you talk so much more in text than you ever did in person, but sort of funny-sad, not funny-ha-ha._

 

Derek looked at that, decided he'd had enough nurturing connections for now, and put the phone away.  He didn't realize until he was  in bed later on that Stiles never answered Derek's question.

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 _She came on to me in the pool.  She was a substitute swim teacher and I swam extra laps after school.  She got in the pool with me and at first we'd just swim.  Then she'd touch me, just my shoulders, my back.  One day she kissed me and--  I don't want to talk about it.  I don't . . . does it matter?  I kissed her back.  It's my fault, it's_ my fault _, and nobody knows except this one kid back in California that figured it out._

_Dad was a stay at home dad.  Grandmother was in her eighties.  She lived with us my whole life.  She was frail.  So was Ben, he was so little.  It.  It probably was fast for them.  But Mom was strong, so was Uncle Peter and Aunt Iris and her girls and--and it must've hurt.  It must've hurt so much.  It must've been slow._

_Yeah, I think about it. I  used to think about it constantly.  I--did it to punish myself.  Because I deserved it._

_Yeah, I did other things to punish myself.  Laura knew.  She couldn't stop me.  She tried._

_Well.  For one thing, I got a brand on my back._

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

They continued to exchange short texts for the next three months, as the holidays approached.  Derek dreaded them.  Derek dropped his workout regimen in favor of more therapy, because the therapy was helping and working out just meant a lot of people looked at his body.  He was tired of that; he was so tired of being used for that against his will or his wishes.  He tried not to take it personally. 

 

The texts were mostly short:  _School sucks, so bored._

**_You should try the laundromat._ **

_You do laundry???_

**_The apartment doesn't have a washer/dryer connect, yeah._** He wanted to add, **_Laura was twenty when she bought the place, and really, what 20 year old who's trying to keep her brother from throwing himself on train tracks regularly thinks about laundry?_**   He didn't type that, though.

 

Stiles seemed impressed that he was behaving vaguely like an adult.  Derek went ahead with letting him think that Derek was succeeding at being a one, like the takeout containers didn't pile up some weeks and Odin hadn't peed in his shoes more than once. 

 

It was a Thursday afternoon in November (not Thanksgiving, but close enough for there to be turkeys everywhere, for the wind to be biting), and Stiles was running a long string of texts about his latest efforts to get his dad to eat right.  Derek texted him, **_Going to my doctor, now, won't be able to text for about an hour_.**

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_Mom had a picture on her desk, in the office.  The picture was of me and Laura.  I was a weird baby, you know, acted out._

 

_I dunno, I liked that picture a lot.  It made me feel special.  Like Mom wanted me around even more, even though I was home all the time.  I took care of Ben and Cora, I was--I loved it.  I was . . . I was good at it.  I was good at taking care of them._

_Ben liked dinosaurs and tearing down Lego buildings Cora and I built, because he thought Godzilla was basically a dinosaur.  He was excited to start school.  It was a big thing, going to school.  We'd all have gone out with him to get his first backpack, gone with him to drop him off for his first day of kindergarten._

_I never would've hurt him on purpose.  Never._

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Exactly one hour later, Derek emerged feeling scrubbed raw again, like he needed to run and/or take a scalding shower.  He read somewhere that the human body replaced all its cells in seven years, and though that didn't seem right for brain and nerve function, Derek looked forward to the day there is no part of him remaining that Kate, or Jennifer, have touched.  On the sidewalk outside the building, his phone buzzed--not a text buzz, but an insistent one.  A phone call. 

 

Derek answered.  Of course he did.  Stiles barely waited for him to say hello.

 

"Are you sick?"  he asked, an explosion of voice that made Derek stumble as he walked.  It'd been so long since he heard Stiles' voice, it was almost shocking that it was something real, not something he just heard in his own mind when he read Stiles' texts.

 

"No," Derek told him.  "But I'm not precisely well."

 

"What did you mean doctor, then?  Because I thought erewolfways didn't get sick?"

 

And there it was--Stiles' attitude and sarcasm.  He'd missed it.  Equilibrium restored a bit, Derek rolled his eyes. "He's a therapist.  You know.  Therapy."

 

The silence on the other end was long, long enough that if Derek were a human, and couldn't hear Stiles' heartbeat and breathing, he'd think Stiles had hung up.  Derek broke it by saying, "Tell your dad, okay?"

 

"That you're in therapy?"

 

"Yeah.  He basically made me."

 

The noise Stiles made was something like a laugh.  "Okay, sure.  I'll.  I'll tell him."  Another beat of silence, in which Stiles' rabbit heart thudded along.  Derek thought for a second about that sound, originating in Stiles' chest in California, bouncing through space or however the hell cellular phones worked, until it reached his own ear, on the corner of 10th Avenue and West 55th Street in New York.  It was sort of a miracle, looked at that way. 

 

"Text me later," Stiles said, finally.  "I need to go make dinner."

 

"Sure," Derek said, not calling him on the fact that it was 2:00 in California right now.  And he thought, maybe, he'd make dinner for himself tonight, too.  It had been a while since he cooked.  He thought about it the rest of the way home, where he kept going to the bodega and bought groceries without paying much attention.  It wasn't until he got home that he realized he'd bought Laura's favorite brand of macaroni and cheese, and Cora's Goldfish, and Ben's Cheerios, among some other things.  It wasn't a huge shock, given the session today.  Ben had been four when he died in the fire.  Months after the fire, Derek had found a plastic dinosaur he'd left in the Camaro, and that dinosaur sat on Laura's dresser, in her old bedroom, along with Dad's leather jacket and Laura's hairbrush, like a shrine.

 

He didn't cook, not really.  He had a dinner of mac and cheese and Cheerios and Goldfish, and went to bed exhausted and his face sore from crying.  He'd never tell anybody, and Odin didn't judge.

 

In the morning, he woke up to a text from Stiles that just said, _Is it working for you?_

 

Derek looked at it and thought about how, yes, he was going to be able to get out of bed today.  He might go for a run, he might go back to the bodega and try again, he might go buy a new book.  He typed, **_Yes._**   He hit send, and curled around Odin's big furry body.

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

_Stiles is a kid.  But he was . . . good to me.  Nice.  He kept my head above water.  It. Feels wrong to put that much on him.  To care about him like that._

_He's seventeen or eighteen.  I don't know.  He's . . . had a really rough time, too._

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

The texting was more or less casual nothings for the next couple of days.  Derek looked forward to every ding of his phone.  He got random messages like _Watermelons are berries but strawberries are not_ and _The mola mola can grow up to 2,200 pounds and mostly eats jellyfish._ Derek googled the last one and showed the massive fish to Odin, who did not seem impressed.

One day before Thanksgiving:  _Research suggests that women are better suited for leadership positions than men._

 

Derek answered that one, **_That explains why packs are matriarchal._**

 

_Really?  Somebody better tell Scott._

**_I think that somebody is you?_ **

****

_Yeah, I kind of killed the love of his life, we're not so much talking right now._

That struck Derek and he stared at the phone for a minute.  Odin yowled, impatient for Derek to finish eating his Fruit Loops so Odin could lap up the milk.  Odin put one big gray paw on Derek's spoon hand and tried to pull it towards his mouth.  Derek shook him off (gently) and resumed eating while he replied with other hand.  He had to go back and erase it a few times, because texting with one hand was not his strongest skill.  The buttons were very small, and Derek had broad fingers.  **_That's bullshit.  That wasn't you._**

 

The reply was a long time in coming.  _It feels like it was._

Derek spent some time figuring out what to type in answer to that.  Long enough to finish his cereal, let the cat drink the milk, and then wash the bowl.  He debated shaving; decided not to.  It was going on two months without shaving, and his beard was developing a personality of its own.  **_Our feelings aren't always correct.  Doesn't mean they aren't there. Just not always correct._**  

_Okay, Yoda, how do you make it stop?_

**_I'll let you know when I figure it out._ **

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

_Before and After.  That's how I think of things._

_I don't know what I was like Before. I guess I was an ordinary kid, except stupid for girls.  I didn't have a lot of friends because I had my family._

_No, no, at one point I did.  But after Paige--yeah, my first girlfriend.  After Paige died, my parents pulled me out of school for a while.  I'd just started back when Kate . . ._

_Of course it was my fault._

_She could_ not _have done what she did without me!_

_I'm_ guilty _, don't you get that?_

_. . ._

_If I wanted to change that, that feeling?  What would I do?_

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Stiles sent him a text and a photo on Thanksgiving:  a turkey breast still steaming from the oven, Stiles' hand in the frame giving a thumbs up.  Stiles was wearing long sleeves in the picture, and his wrist was thinner than Derek remembered it being.  

 

Derek had been planning on binge watching something on Netflix.  He didn't have therapy again until Monday, which made this the longest stretch of time he'd gone without it since starting.  He'd thought Dr. Norris was going to cry for relief when he'd asked, yesterday, about changing that feeling of guilt he'd kept in his chest since he was fifteen.  He didn't tell him that he was asking for Stiles.

 

He'd left with the title of a book, and he'd stopped to get it on the way home.  It sat on the table, innocuous, a fucking butterfly on the cover.  The title was _Escaping Toxic Guilt:  Beginning the Journey to Free Yourself from Undeserved Guilt and Shame_. 

 

He thought Stiles deserved a picture in return, so he took the book to the bathroom and put it in front of his face, leaving just his beard showing.  The picture was a little ridiculous, but so was a baked turkey breast.  He sent it along and went to warm up some Chinese food.

 

His phone chimed ten minutes later. _Okay dude. Dad and I have a strict No Electronics rule for Thanksgiving and Christmas but I am sneaking in the bathroom to answer that because what the hell._

 

_A) BEARD????? I will call you Gimli._

_B) If you don't get that reference we can't be friends_

_C) DID YOU REALIZE YOU WERE WEARING AN INVADER ZIM TSHIRT I didn't even know you knew what a cartoon was_

_D) Is that your New York apartment??????_

_E) BEARD?????????_

The texts came rapid fire, and Derek felt the most pressing response was **_If I'm Gimli, you're Legolas because you're tall and pointy._**

_Ha ha clearly I am Boromir because I was taken over by the evil thing only to pull it together at the end.  There were even arrows involved.  Fuck._

 

Derek called him.  Stiles didn't answer immediately, and when he did, Derek could hear his irregular breathing.  Derek said, "Hey."  Now that he had Stiles on the line, he wasn't sure what to say.

 

Stiles' laugh was strained, rough.  "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm gonna get grounded from my phone for talking on Thanksgiving but I'm fine."

 

"You don't have to be," Derek told him. 

 

"Yeah?  So how are you, big guy?"

 

"I'm . . . not fine."  Admitting it to someone who wasn't Dr. Norris felt exposing, vulnerable.  But he did it anyway.  "I haven't been fine in a long time."

 

"You just fake it, huh?"

 

"Yeah, well, if you guys had seen what a fucking mess I was you really wouldn't have listened to me when Scott was bitten.  Though it's not like he ever listened, so."

 

Stiles snorted.  "There was a lot of not-listening that went around.  And not-paying-attention."  There was a short pause, then he said, "How'd my dad make you do therapy, anyway?"

 

"Oh," Derek shifted on his feet, uncomfortable, and sat down on the floor.  Predictably, Odin immediately found him and curled up on his legs, purring as loud as he could.  Derek sank his fingers into Odin's soft fur.  "Turns out he knew my dad."

 

Stiles' indrawn breath was loud.  "Ah, yeah, I get it."  He cleared his throat.  "He's been. Making me go, too.  Found somebody who knows about the supernatural, somehow, so I'm not getting locked up for talking about werewolves and literal possession."

 

"That's good--Dr. Norris doesn't know.  So he takes some things to be metaphors."

 

"You're really, you know, applying yourself to it."

 

"It's that or lay down on some tracks."  Derek was serious when he said it, and he could tell from the quality of the silence that Stiles knew it. 

 

"I feel the same way, sometimes.  Not--not tracks, specifically, because that's very  specific."

 

"I'm pretty sure I'd heal from a head wound," Derek says.  "It'd been, you know, my plan. Since after the fire.  I'm pretty sure a train would kill me so thoroughly I couldn't heal.  I just--I didn't do it because Laura needed me."

 

"And after Laura?"

 

"There were some kids who got dumped into this whole werewolf thing that needed some help, and I was the best they had."

 

"Yeah, well, those stupid fucking kids should've paid attention."

 

"Sometimes, they should've.  But they wouldn't have been stupid fucking kids if they'd paid attention."  He took a breath before offering, "But they turned out alright."

 

Stiles' laugh was bitter.  "Hey--I gotta go, Dad's gonna send a search party.  If I don't answer your texts it's because I'm grounded from my phone.  Okay?"

 

"Okay.  Call when you can.  Or text."

 

"I will.  Happy Thanksgiving, big guy."

 

" . . .Happy Thanksgiving, Stiles."

 

Stiles sent one more text, though, just seconds after hanging up.  It simply read, _I think about my dad's gun.  He'd never forgive himself._

 

Derek was still trying to figure out what to do about that text four hours later, when his phone rang.  It showed Stiles' number, so he answered.  He could tell it wasn't Stiles from the breathing, coming from a deeper chest.  John, then.

 

"Hello, sir," Derek said. 

 

"Derek Hale?  Huh. Stiles has you in his phone as Big Guy.  How are you, son?"

 

It had been so long since anyone called him _son_ that his chest caught up, and for a moment he was so absorbed in memories of his dad that his vision actually went white.

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Dad was the cook.  Mom was too busy being alpha of a big, thriving pack, so Dad took care of things at home.  For a family as big as theirs, where Peter and Grandmother lived full time with Derek, his parents, and his siblings, dinners on ordinary Tuesday nights were already large affairs.  On Thanksgiving, the extended family all gathered, and Dad, Derek, and Peter spent two days preparing food.  Grandmother joined them to oversee Peter's pie-making.  Peter and Grandmother had always been close.  She was his mother, of course, and he was the baby out of all of her children.

 

Derek was put in charge of sides and stuffing when he was about thirteen.  It made him so proud to see the whole family eating the things he'd prepared.  Dad helped him, even taking Derek's directions on what to do, how to do it.  Joseph Hale had been tall, thick, and it was from him Derek inherited his fuzzy face.  "I think that bird's just about done, son.  Ready to get gobbled." 

 

" _Dad_." Derek could remember rolling his eyes at the stupid pun.  His dad laughed, and yelled for Laura and Cora to come and set the table.

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

" . . . You there?  Derek?"

 

Derek snapped back into the present, shook his head like he could shake off cobwebs, like he could shake off the smell of his father's cooking or the warmth of his affection.  "Yeah--sorry, sorry."

 

"Did you hear me?"

 

"No, I--missed it, sorry."

 

"I asked how long you and Stiles have been talking. He deleted his call and text history before I took his phone, the little smartass."  It was said with affection, though, like John knew precisely where his son got it.

 

"Since--September? August?"  Derek didn't remember exactly when he'd first contacted Stiles.  "Do you want me to stop answering him?"  He asked it, dreading the answer. 

 

"No, no, just--it surprises me, is all.  He said you're really going to a therapist?"

 

"Yeah.  It's been--good for me."

 

"I'm glad to hear that, son."  No flashback this time. Derek breathed a sigh of relief.  "You feel free to tell him how useful therapy can be, alright?"

 

The way he said that caught Derek's attention.  "Is Stiles alright?"

 

" . . . Why don't you ask him that?  I'll give him his phone back in the morning.  You can call him, text, it's fine.  Hell, you can call me, too.  Did things get worked out with the insurance?"

 

"Yeah, it's settled."  John had helped Derek after Laura's death.  There were financial and legal things that he didn't have the mental fortitude or knowledge to deal with; John had also helped him to arrange for the internment of Laura's body; and, before he left Beacon Hills the last time, for the final demolition of the house.  It had been a collapsed ruin and a hazard, and Derek hadn't wanted anyone to take shelter there and get hurt.

"Glad to hear that, too.  You know, if you aren't doing anything for the holidays, you could come back, spend it with us."

 

"That's . .. really generous of you . . ."

 

"But it's about the last thing on earth you want to do?  I get it--but the invitation is open."

 

"Thank you, sir."

 

"Sure thing.  You have a good night, Derek, try not to eat too much."

 

"I won't. Goodnight." 

 

Derek hung up the phone and looked at it, and wondered--should have told Stiles' dad about the gun?  But Stiles said he was in therapy.  Surely Stiles had told his therapist.

 

Right?

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

 _Dude thanks for whatever you said, Dad gave me my phone back already._   That was the text that greeted Derek when he woke up.  He'd spent the evening eating every grain of rice in every leftover Chinese carton, watched five hours of the Great British Baking show (it was so fucking soothing) and slept late. 

 

 ** _Your dad is a soft touch_** , Derek answered, rolling out of bed to feed Odin.  A pigeon had landed on the fire escape off the kitchen window, and Odin made bizarre mrap noises at it.  On a whim, Derek started videoing it.  He sent it to Stiles on the same whim, not really thinking about it.

 

_Is that a cat?  Holy shit is that your cat, I can see your reflection in the glass._

_Do you have a cat?_

_Derek.  This is important._

**_That's Odin._ **

_Oh my god why did you name your cat Odin._

**_He's got one eye._ **

****

**_I've had him for a while._ **

****

**_I heard him crying in a garbage can and pulled him out, and Laura felt so sorry for both of us she let me keep him.  And Laura hated cats._ **

****

_Aw aw awwwwwwww._

_You have lost all bad boy credit._

_You literally rescue KITTENS from the GARBAGE and raise one-eyed special needs kittens._

_Who was taking care of him while you were in CA though????_

**_A neighbor._ **

****

_I AM SHOWING MY DAD._

_HELLO DEREK IT IS JOHN THAT CAT IS LARGE AND UGLY BUT THE STORY IS SWEET.  I HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY  I HAVE TO GO TO WORK.  SINCERELY JOHN._

Derek had to put the phone down and laugh. Later, he sent a text to John's number--which John had given him before he left Beacon Hills the last time--and asked him why he texted like he was ninety-seven.

 

John answered, _Because it drives Stiles crazy._ He put the smile emoji at the end and everything.

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Derek and Stiles texted all weekend, and Stiles talked him into getting something on his computer so they could sync their Netflix watching and text while they watched things.  The subject of guns and trains didn't come up again.  They watched terrible action movies, mostly, though Stiles talked him into trying an episode of Cowboy Bebop and in return, they watched an episode of the Great British Baking Show.  They agreed the shows were smooth/cool and incredibly relaxing, respectively.    It was good, then, to have something to fall back on when Bruce Willis and Quentin Tarantino let them down.

 

Stiles brought up the idea of Facetime the next week, because _I want to see your cool New York apartment_.

 

Derek dug up Facetime from the bowels of his phone, where he'd banished it as soon as he'd got it, and set it up.  They'd agreed on a time, and Derek made an effort to look less . . . less like a guy who spent most of his days in his apartment with his cat.  When Stiles answered the call, and Derek's phone filled with his face, Derek was momentarily startled.  Stiles had lost weight; it was obvious even in his face, and he hadn't had a lot to lose.  He had dark circles under his eyes and he was too pale.  "Hey," Derek said.  He wanted to say, _You don't look okay._ Or, _Can I help?_   Or, _You should talk to your dad, don't you realize what a gift it is that you_ can _?_

"Hey, big guy," Stiles said, and he smiled, and the smile reached his eyes.   "Jesus, you don't see somebody for months and you kinda start to wonder if your mind made up things?  Like--Nevermind."  Spots of color bloomed on Stiles' cheeks, and Derek suspected that if they were in the same room, he'd smell of embarrassment and arousal.  Stiles frequently smelled of both, before. 

 

"You've changed," Derek told him.  "You look . . ."

 

"Like I'm not sleeping?  Yeah, well."  Stiles ducked his head, looking away, whatever light that had been in his eyes winking out.  "Residual effects of the nogitsune, man."

 

"Does anything help?"

 

"Not really?  I mean, I got some pills, on prescription?  But I hate the idea of having a harder time waking up.  I just--yeah.  Not working for me.  So, uh, _anyway_.  Show me your place.  _Your cat_.  Also--do me a favor?  Stick your fingers in your beard for me, pictures don't show _density_ so much--"

 

With a small grin, Derek complied, running his fingers through his facial hair, then smoothing it down. 

 

"Dude. Does it itch?"

 

"I keep it clean, so no."

 

"I read you should moisturize, too.  And condition.  Do you do that?"

 

"Yeah--Why were you reading about beards?"

 

"Hey, I might grow a facial hair one day."

 

Derek snorted a laugh, and Stiles smiled again, and his eyes were bright.  Derek took him around a tour of the apartment.  For New York standards, it was a big place, with two bedrooms and a bathroom, a kitchen and dining room, a speck of a patio.  Laura had sunk a big chunk of the insurance money into a place they owned.  The walls were painted her favorite blue, like a storm cloud, and she'd picked the furniture, too.  Derek's books were his main contribution to the space;  the kitchen was also a little bit more "his."

 

"I was never very happy, but I liked that I could take care of her," Derek told Stiles, who'd asked about a bin of gadgets he saw on a shelf in the kitchen.  "So if I looked at something twice, she'd get it.  Especially for the kitchen."

 

"What was your favorite thing to cook her?"

 

"Mashed potatoes.  With a lot of butter."

 

"Aaaaand now I want carbs, thanks."  Stiles grinned, a soft little grin that made Derek want to run his thumb over Stiles' bottom lip.  It was a good thing they were separated by thousands of miles.  "Me and mom used to cook, until she got too confused to be in the kitchen.  She did the boxed potatoes most of the time, but sometimes we'd break out the spuds, you know, get our Polish on."

 

"I cooked with Dad," Derek offers, feeling less like he's making himself vulnerable than like he's reaching out a hand to take something Stiles was holding out already.  "And Ben."

 

"Your little brother, right?"

 

"Yeah.  Though--mostly he made messes.  Peter cooked, too. Desserts."  
  
"Peter?  _Crazy zombie uncle Peter?_   Was the family pastry chef?"

 

Derek grinned, just a little.  "Yeah, well, he was the baby?  He spent a lot of time with his mom, my grandmother.  It was something they did together."

 

Stiles looks stunned, like Derek had just told him the sky was, in fact, green, and he'd been misled all his life about the names of colors.  "Holy fuck," Stiles breathed.  "If I _ever_ see him again I may call him the Muffin Man, or something more clever, just--oh my _God_."

 

Derek rolled his eyes, and continued the tour.  There was a substantial pause in the tour when Odin made an appearance, and Stiles wanted Derek to move the phone all around, to touch Odin's paws and ears to try to give Stiles a better sense of him.  The extrapolations Stiles drew were pretty interesting, so Derek indulged him.  They passed by the door of Laura's bedroom--closed--and then into Derek's . . . well.

 

It was a bedroom, but Derek saw it now through Stiles' eyes.  It was dark, nothing on the walls, the bed made but only by throwing the bedspread over the pillows, not with any neatness in mind.  Books were piled on the shelves and against the side of his desk, on which his old desktop chugged along.  The blinds were drawn completely.  The bedspread itself was blue, and it was only that color because Derek's eyes had lingered on it; he'd brushed his hand over it twice while they were out shopping.  When Derek came home from his (terrible) job the next day, it was sitting on his previously-covered-by-cheap-blankets-only bed. 

 

Derek's bedroom was a quiet, dark sanctuary.  It had always been comforting to him before, but now it just seemed . . . sad.

 

"How far can you see out the windows?"  Stiles asked.  "Is that a copy of _Nightwatch_ on your shelf?  I heard it was good but weird?"

 

Derek obediently showed him the view (not great) and the bookshelves, and they talked about books for a while.  The book on guilt was on Derek's bed.

 

"How about that one?"  Stiles asked.  "The Guilt Book?"

 

Derek struggled to put it into words, the same way he'd struggled to talk to Dr. Norris about it today.  "It feels--weird.  That I can relate to the things that are in it.  I guess I didn't think what I felt would be the same as anybody else, because of--circumstances."

 

"But you feel like it describes you?"

 

"Yeah.  I'm not sure about some of the solutions.  But they're basically what Dr. Norris recommended."  
  
"Like what?"

 

Derek shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortably.  "Things like looking in the mirror and talking about how it wasn't my fault.  Or that the thing I feel guilty for isn't the thing I'm really guilty of."

 

"That sounds--weird, maybe?  Also, what my shrink says."  
  
"Have you tried it?"

 

"Hell no.  I mean--this isn't my first therapy rodeo.  The first time around, you know, was after Mom died."  Stiles face twisted uncomfortably.  "I was with her, you know?  Just me."

 

"Where was your dad?"

 

"On a call.  It--it really sucked.  I know he couldn't help it, he was the sheriff and people were dead, but--"  Stiles stopped. "You can't tell him I said that, okay?  Ever.  That is not something he needs to know is still on my mind, alright?"

 

"I won't tell him," Derek said, soft, watching Stiles' face.  The wetness glittering there, clear even over thousands of miles and sub-optimal video quality. 

 

"Thanks," Stiles said, and sniffed, and rolled his head on his shoulders.  "Hey, so, wanna watch some gentle British bakers?"

 

"Yeah," Derek said. "Let's do that."

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

About a week later, Derek got a text that was just a picture of Stiles holding the guilt book up, covering his face.  He'd made a beard out of notebook paper and taped it to his chin, looking like a pinstriped Gandalf because it was down to his chest.  Derek laughed out loud, and showed it to Dr. Norris at his next session.

 

If Stiles was reading the book, Derek figured they could talk about it.  Maybe Derek should go ahead and practice the things in the book.  For research purposes.

 

He never realized how much he avoided looking at himself in the mirror until he stood in the bathroom with the intention to _do_ something.  He'd written down what he wanted to say, and taped it to the mirror so he could read it while still mostly looking at his own face.  Dr. Norris had been a fan of this idea.

 

"I didn't kill my family," Derek said, looking at himself. 

 

His hands started to shake, his stomach did, and he felt like he might faint.  He left the bathroom and kept the light off every time he had to piss for the next two days.

 

Stiles asked him at one point what he thought of the mirror technique--was it bullshit?  Or super bullshit?

 

Derek typed, **_It's superbullshit._**   Then he thought about Stiles with his dad's gun and deleted it. He typed instead, the first lie he'd told Stiles since they started this, **_It's really hard but it kind of feels okay after a while._**

__

Then he went back in the bathroom, turned on the light, and tried again.  He had his dad's eyes.  His face, though, a face Kate had called pretty and stroked with her fingernails.  He hated his face sometimes. 

 

Odin wrapped around his ankles.

 

Derek said, for the second time in his life, "I didn't kill my family."  And it was easier.  He didn't shake so much this time.  So he kept going.  "Kate did."  He stopped, waiting for the world to end, for the universe to crash down on him, for Ducalion to lurch through the door and finish the job.

 

Nothing happened.  Odin purred hard enough his whiskers shook when Derek looked down at him.  "I didn't kill my family," Derek told his cat.  "Kate did."

 

 _"_ Mrow?"  Odin replied. 

 

Derek had to laugh.

 

When Stiles asked Derek later on how Derek started doing the mirror thing, Derek told him about talking about it with his therapist, and developing the list with him.  He talked about taping the list to his mirror and making himself read it.  Stiles asked to hear the whole thing.  _Not now. Not today.  Just whenever you're ready_.

 

**_Only if you can do it, too._ **

_Hard bargain, big guy.  Okay._

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

The city was lit up for Christmas early in December.  The first snow fell over one night, blanketing the green spaces in the city softly.  Derek went out running before the sun rose, feeling the chill acutely and remembering winters back home.  He stopped for hot coffee and ate his breakfast sitting in a booth as the sun came up.  There was something peaceful about it, something beautiful that made Derek feel like things could be good. Derek went home to his mirror.  "I didn't kill my family.  Kate did," he told his reflection.  "I didn't betray my family.  Kate lied to me and used me."  He swallowed, took a deep shaky breath, and started over from the top.

 

Two days later, Samir invited Derek to join his family for a Ramadan dinner.  He'd invited Derek and Laura every year; Laura had gone.  This time, Derek accepted, and shortly before sunset, he followed Samir to a local mosque.  Samir chatted the whole way, clearly excited about Derek's presence, telling him about the tradition and the beliefs.  Derek didn't want to make a fool of himself or insult Samir, so he listened.   When they went inside, Samir was greeted by a woman in a hijab.  She was so cutting-edge fashionable that Derek thought, briefly, that Lydia would like to meet her.  Her name was Betbirai and it turned out she was Samir's cousin.  Derek sat between them for the meal.  The food was excellent, and so was the company. He was obviously not the only non-practitioner in the room.  The traditions and food were so different from his family's own traditions that there wasn't any painful memory to overshadow things.

 

When they left the mosque, it was snowing again, big white flakes that clung to Derek's hair and Samir's hat, and sparkled in the streetlights until they melted.

 

Back at the apartment, he thanked Samir for inviting him.  Samir smiled, a little shy.  He was attractive, a few inches shorter than Derek.  "I'm glad you came."  Samir's hand found Derek's elbow, and he leaned in, going for a kiss.

 

Derek's breath froze and he side-stepped.  "Samir, I'm--"

 

"Oh--oh, sorry," Samir's face turned red rapidly and he took a step back.

 

"No, it's not--it's not that.  It's that I'm--"  Derek stopped, and forced himself to finish. "I'm not into things like that. At all.  With anybody.  But I liked going out with you tonight."

 

Samir's face was confused, then--regretful.  "Right.  I guess--thanks for letting me know.  Sorry I sort of--went in for a kiss without asking."

 

"It's fine," Derek said, hands tucked in his pockets.  "Really."  Then, he had to ask, "Are--are we okay?"

 

"Um.  Ask me tomorrow, when I'm not mortified?"

 

"Right--sure."  Derek bit his lip on another sorry.  "Goodnight, Samir.  Um. Ramadan Mabarak?"

 

Samir smiled a little, tight, still radiating embarrassment.  "Ramadan _Mubarak_ , Daniel.  Ramadan Kareem."  Samir turned to leave after that, and Derek stood in the hallway until he heard Samir's door close--and then the sound of Samir gently pounding his own head against the wall.

 

Derek's own face was burning when he went inside.  Odin was sitting at the living room window, tail lashing as he watched the snow fall.  Derek sank his fingers into Odin's fur and sighed.  He didn't look in the mirror to read his lines that night. 

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Only a few days after the Ramadan meal, at 3:16 a.m., Derek's phone rang.  It was Stiles' ringtone ( _Okay, three, two, one, let's jam_ \--)  and Derek answered.  Outside, he could hear sirens and the noise of a thousand heaters. The weather had snapped into freezing.

 

"I need to talk," Stiles said on the other end of the line, a whisper.  He sounded strained, he sounded desperate.  "Is that okay?"

 

Derek sat up in bed, shivering as the cold air rushed in.  "Yeah, what's wrong?"

 

"I just--I can't _sleep_ and I'm so _tired_."  His voice sounded hopeless and desperate.  "I'm so tired it _hurts_ and I don't know what to do!"

 

"I'm here," Derek said, tuning in to listen to his panicky heartbeat.  "Stiles?  Take a deep breath, okay?"

 

It took Stiles a full minute, and much more encouragement, to take a deep, deep breath.  The first one shuddered, but after the fifth, it had started to even out.  "I've got you," Derek found himself saying.  "I've got you."

 

"I just want to sleep," Stiles told him.

 

"What happens?  Why can't you?"

 

"I close my eyes and just.  I think the door's opening."

 

Derek knew Stiles didn't mean the bedroom door.  "The nogitsune is trapped.  It can't get you, Stiles."

 

Stiles sucked in another shaky breath.  "Wanna hear the first line of my, uh, my self-forgiveness mantra?"

 

"Okay, sure," Derek said.

 

"It's so hard to believe.  I didn't think it'd be so hard to _say_ though.  But okay. _I didn't invite the nogitsune in_."

 

"You sure as hell didn't," Derek replied, a little fiercely. 

 

Stiles' laugh was shaky.  "Will you talk?  Will you stay on the phone with me for a while?  Until I go to sleep?  If.  If you hear something weird--"  
  
"I won't," Derek said.  "I won't hear something weird.  Nothing's going to happen to you. But I'll listen.  And if I do hear something, I'll do something."

 

"Okay."  Stiles' voice sounded more calm now, though still strained.  "Okay.  Thanks, thank you."

 

"You're welcome," Derek told him.  "What do you want to hear about?"

 

"Something I don't know about you, maybe?"

 

Derek thought about Stiles struggling for so long in the pool, keeping Derek's head above water.  He started talking.  "Mom had this picture on her desk," he said.  "Of me and Laura when we were little.  Except I was a puppy.  I could full shift when I was really little, and spent most of my time as a puppy.  So in the picture, Laura's cuddling with me, with this little black wolf puppy.  I told Dr. Norris about the picture, but not the puppy part, obviously.

 

"So one day, there was company--I can't remember who, just that it wasn't pack.  And Laura goes, 'That's me and Derek!'  And she was pointing at the picture.

 

"Whoever Laura was talking to, she looks at Mom and goes, 'You named your son after the family dog?'"  Derek stopped talking, waiting for a reaction--

 

Stiles was snoring. 

 

Derek sighed, grateful, and told another story to Stiles' unhearing ear.  This one was about this ordinary human kid who saved an alpha werewolf's life in a swimming pool (the same pool where, six years earlier, the werewolf had been molested.  Derek left that detail out of the story entirely.).  Stiles was sleeping more deeply by the time it was done.  Derek remained on the line until the call dropped, presumably because Stiles' battery died. 

 

The sky over New York had turned pale pink, a December day that promised to be bright and clear and cold, like the edge of a knife.

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

It became a thing.  Derek got a phone call late at night, and he talked to Stiles until Stiles was asleep deeply enough that Derek could just put the phone on speaker, go to sleep himself, or listen.  Sometimes, he heard Stiles begin to have nightmares; on those occasions, Derek would start talking again.  It seemed to work.

 

He told Stiles, "When I started driving, Uncle Peter was the one who taught me.  We were close, and Dad was really busy with Cora and Ben, so Peter volunteered.  We took out his old Honda and I practiced driving in parking lots.  There was this big hill in the parking lot, and on the way up it, one day, the car lost power.  Like, all power.  Just died.  Peter told me to put my foot on the brakes, but I'd only been practicing for about a week, so I put my foot on the gas instead.  It didn't _do_ anything because the engine was dead--but we started to roll backwards.  We were all the way down the hill by the time Peter thought to throw on the parking brake.  He was laughing so hard he couldn't call my mom, and I was maybe crying.  Maybe.  I won't confirm or deny it.  Listen, I was _fifteen_."

 

He told Stiles, "Mom had all of us at home.  My aunt Iris was like a midwife--that was her job, literally.  I don't remember when Cora was born very clearly--I was four, almost five.  But I remember how small and squishy she was when Dad let me hold her.  I was twelve when Ben was born, though, and it was my job to keep Cora occupied until Ben was, um, out.  So we went out into the woods and I pretended to be a bunny and let her chase me.  My sisters always called me bunny, before.  You know, because of my teeth.  Anyway, we came back when we heard Ben crying, and Dad calling us, and we got to hold Ben.   Cora was so careful with him.  We all loved him so much, he was--he would've been so spoiled, Stiles, just unbearable."

 

He told Stiles, "Grandmother was Latina and some kind of Native American.  She told me but I forgot.  Peter would know.  My grandfather, her husband, was super white, though.  Like, blonde, freckles.  And my dad was white.  Uncle Peter always called him a gringo.  Anyway, the land was actually Grandmother's, her family, back, back before, you know, there was a Beacon Hills.  I don't know if they were _always_ there, I--I'm sure Grandmother knew.  I'm sure she would've told me, when I was older."

 

He told Stiles, "When wolves get really old, they can't turn anymore.  It was going to be Grandmother's last moon, and--and it wasn't safe for Cora to be out and running on a full moon.  So the family decided to spend the moon indoors, with Grandmother and Cora, down in the basement, where there were bars on the windows strong enough to keep a werewolf in.  I told Kate, I--I told her where my whole family would be, and when, and it must've seemed like a present to her--"

 

"Hey," Stiles said, his voice so sudden that Derek was shocked.  "Hey, Derek?  Derek, say it, okay?"

 

Derek sucked in his breath like a drowning man, like Stiles had just pulled him back to the surface again.  "I didn't kill my family," Derek said, and then he was crying, and it was _grief_ , for the first time.  It was just grief, not guilt, and he'd never felt it before, and it _hurt_ , but it was the sort of hurt he knew he could recover from, even as the tidal wave of it overwhelmed him.

 

Stiles stayed on the phone with until the sun came up in New York.

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Saturday, Derek stood outside the bodega where he'd been doing his grocery shopping.  It'd be cheaper to take the train to the Key Foods, but he was a creature of habit, and Mrs. Garces was nice to him in a way that didn't make him feel like he had to go home and take a shower.  There was an ad taped to the window, and he was looking at it, thinking about turkey sandwiches and wondering if he'd bother doing anything for his birthday this year.  He couldn't imagine there was much of a point to it.

 

The phone rang--the generic ringtone that everybody besides Stiles had--and Derek answered.  It was John Stilinski.  "I don't know what you've been doing," John started.

 

"Sir?"

 

"But I wanted to thank you.  Stiles has been sleeping better.  He's been _sleeping_.  So. Thank you."

 

"Oh--oh.  You're welcome.  I didn't . . . I just talked to him."

 

"You got him to talk to you, he said.  Not just--not just making noise like he does to me, just to get me off his back."

 

"He's helped me, too," Derek admitted, scuffing his boot on the nasty snow on the curb.  He moved away from the door to let a little old man get by. 

 

"You should tell him that.  I mean it.  He feels like--I feels like he's got a lot to make up for, I think."

 

"That isn't right," Derek said, after a moment of stewing.  "He was used."

 

"Yeah.  So were you, son, but it's easier to say that to somebody else than to hear it about yourself, isn't it?"

 

Derek didn't have to answer.  The sheriff continued, "Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I mentioned the Christmas invitation to Stiles.  I know you weren't interested, but he might bring it up.  If you want to come--Derek.  We'd love for you to join us, really.  I know it's a long trip--"

 

"I'll come," Derek blurted.  "Can I bring my cat?"

 

" . .. that was not a sentence I was ever prepared to hear."  
  
"It's just--the guy who usually watches him while I'm gone--he tried to kiss me a few days ago and I turned him down."

 

"Well, not everybody swings that way."

 

"It's not that," Derek said, hurrying to say it. "It's--I don't swing _at all_ , I mean--I'm kind of tired of swinging and getting a baseball to the face."

 

" . .. okay.  I can see that."  There was something strange in John's voice, but he still hadn't answered the question, so Derek waited.  John said, after a moment, "Okay, uh, yeah. Bring your cat."

 

Derek promised to call back when he had the arrangements, and John told him he was welcome as long as he wanted. Derek wondered what he was supposed to do while Stiles was in school.  He didn't think Christmas vacation started this early. 

 

He'd accepted the offer without thinking about Dr. Norris.  At his appointment the next day, Dr. Norris settled in his chair, notepad on his lap.  Dr. Norris was like a skinny hobbit--about five feet tall, with bushy white eyebrows and hair, and he went barefoot in his office even in winter because of necrosis in his feet. He always smelled a little sick, but he was the most harmless person Derek had ever seen.

 

Derek settled onto Dr. Norris' big, squishy couch and the therapy dog, Peace, settled his big head in Derek's lap.  Peace had licked Derek's face through more than one panic attack in here; Derek loved that dog.

 

"So how are you feeling today, Daniel?"  Dr. Norris asked.  Derek wished he could tell Dr. Norris his real name.

 

"I'm okay today," Derek answered.  "I've been texting Stiles a lot, and his dad called me."  He summarized the conversation with John, and ended with, "I told him I'd come back to Beacon Hills and spend Christmas with them."

 

"You must mean a lot to them, if they're inviting you into their home for the holidays."

 

"I guess," Derek shrugged, never comfortable with admitting the possibility that he was important. 

 

"Well, Daniel, I care about you very much, but I'd probably not invite you for Christmas dinner.  And not just because it wouldn't be professional.  It's something you do for good friends and family.  Would you say that was a good thing, falling into that category?"

 

"Yeah, I would.  It--makes me scared, too."

 

"Scared?"

 

"That I'll--screw it up.  That something'll happen. That they'll see what a fucked up person I am and regret it."

 

"Are your worries reasonable, or an expression of some of your issues we've talked about?"

 

That had been Derek's word, _issues_.  He thought for a moment, then had to admit, with an exhale, "It's not reasonable."

 

"Because?"

 

"Because the Stilinskis don't hate imperfect people, and I've screwed up plenty and Stiles has been--he's been--he hasn't given up on me."

 

"He means a lot to you?  Stiles?"

 

Derek had to be quiet, to process that, to pet Peace.  Peace licked at his own nose and looked up at Derek with big brown eyes. He was some kind of German shepherd mix, and just huge.  He'd recognized Derek as a sort of kin immediately.  He was an old dog, too, and when Derek could, he'd take a little of the pain from his hips and joints; Dr. Norris gave him medicine and took good care of him, of course, but Derek could still help a little.

 

"He means a lot to me," Derek admitted.  "There were some really rough times.  Like when Boyd was killed."  Derek had said it was with his car--that someone had pulled on the steering wheel while he was driving, and he'd hit Boyd with his car.  It was close enough to the truth.  "And the last few months . . ."

 

Dr. Norris waited.

 

"I'd call him my best friend," Derek finally admitted, and felt himself blush.

 

Dr. Norris scribbled something on his notepad.  And waited.  And waited.

 

" . .. I'm attracted to him," Derek said, reluctant.

 

"Ah-ha. How do you feel about that?"

 

"How should I feel?"

 

"You know I'm not going to answer that."

 

"I feel  .  . . conflicted."  Conflicted, he'd learned, was a great way to say "I don't have a fucking clue what these emotions are." 

 

"Want to talk through it?"

 

"Not really?  But.   I probably should. Before I go out there."   

 

"That's an emotionally mature choice.  Good job.  I'd be happy to listen to you."

 

Derek gave him a dry look, and got a small, dry smile in return.  "I like him.  He's--smart and funny and doesn't take any shit from me."

 

"Are you physically attracted to him?"

 

" . . . yes."

 

"Does that make you uncomfortable?"

 

"Of course it does.  I don't like--sex, I don't like being touched.  Sometimes I feel like I want to touch him, though."  He thought about the last time they used Facetime, how the circles under Stiles' eyes had started to lighten, and how Derek wanted to run his thumb across them, to ease the tender, delicate skin.

 

"Do you think it would be uncomfortable with Stiles?"

 

"I don't know.  He may not even want--he may not even want that."

 

"Mm."

 

"But if he did.  I'd want it to be--I wouldn't want to be something he'd regret."

 

"Consideration of others' feelings is usually a good quality in a boyfriend, or a friend.  It sounds like you're coming from a good place."

 

"I--isn't that also selfish?  He's--he's young."

 

"How young, Daniel?"

 

"Seventeen--eighteen?"  
  
"And you're twenty-three?"

 

"I'll be twenty-three soon."

 

"Four years is not a tremendous age gap," Dr. Norris said, carefully.  "I'm not encouraging you to be with anyone underage, of course, but I don't think you'd take advantage of anyone.  It's my professional judgment that you need to not shut out that part of your life--with Stiles, or with someone else.  Attraction is normal.  Connections are what keep us human, Daniel."

 

Derek sat quietly for a while, thinking about that.  "If I did want to . . .. try that?  With someone?"

 

"You need, first, to learn your own boundaries and how to articulate them.  You're a survivor of traumatic sexual abuse.  You need to practice talking about what you want, and what you don't. And if someone doesn't listen to your boundaries, they aren't worth your time."

 

"That's very judgmental of you, Dr. Norris."

 

"Well," he said, putting the cap on his pen.  "Your hour was up two minutes ago, so that was just Franklin."  His smile was small.  "I can recommend a book for you, since you've made such progress with the grief one."

 

"Okay," Derek said, though his face was flaming.  "Thank you."

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

The title of the book, mortifyingly, was _Learning to Love Again:  Healing sexual trauma and combating triggers through positive self-awareness_.  At least the post-colon descriptions of books like this were always helpful.  Derek bought the book, bought a copy of _Nightwatch_ for Stiles for Christmas, and decided to get a bottle of booze for the sheriff once he got to California.  Something nice.  He packed a bag, packed another one with books and cat things, corralled Odin into a carrier, and told Samir he'd be gone for a couple of weeks.

 

Stiles had been pleased to hear that Derek was coming, was planning on staying with him.  He'd started texting about plans.  _We are going to binge watch Netflix things and talk full nerd in front of my dad and you will help me eat pizza when Dad's not home and I will make you my mom's potato pancakes and you can make me some mashed potatoes and we will improve our mental health together._  

 

**_No plans to spend time with Scott?_ **

****

_Well.  Scott and I talk some but I don't know if we'll ever be like we were._

**_Maybe you just need time._** Derek privately thought Stiles deserved much better than Scott.

 

_Time will help, probably.  And that wasn't actually sarcastic I really think it will. Which is new._

Once out of the city, Derek let Odin out of his carrier. Odin roamed the car a little bit before settling on the dash.  He'd found the bowl of food and water Derek had _carefully_ secured in a plastic shoebox on the floorboard.  Derek was glad he'd put the Camaro in storage and bought this SUV.  It was more comfortable for cross-country trips, which he was obligated to take since flying on a plane was pure misery for a werewolf.  And required more identification than Derek was comfortable presenting. 

 

It was a four day drive to California, since Derek didn't want to rush, and he'd told John and Stiles to expect him sometime on Saturday.  He read the book in the shitty motel rooms he rented so Odin could pee and poop in dignity in the litterbox Derek had brought with him. 

 

He looked in shitty bathroom mirrors and said things that made him shake, that made him blush.  He practiced saying that _I_ _like kissing, but not fingernails.  Don't call me sweetie_.  He practiced saying _I want to hold your hand_ and _I don't want to go too fast._  

 

He looked in the mirror and said, "I didn't kill my family.  Kate did.  I didn't betray my family.  Kate lied to me and used me.  I am not responsible for the things Jennifer did.  Jennifer used me."

 

He wondered if he'd ever really believe all of it, all the time.

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Nothing had changed in the town, at least not that Derek could tell.  Then again, it had only been a few months. He'd left right around the beginning of June, just after the nogitsune was handled. Cora had wanted to go home, and Derek had wanted to return to New York.  At least things had left off better between them. 

 

Instead of driving around town, Derek went straight to the Stilinski house, parking on the street.  The air was cool, but not the bitter cold of New York, and Derek left the window cracked for Odin (just enough to give him some air flow) as he walked up to the porch.  It was about four in the afternoon, and Derek and his cat were both ready to be out of the car.  Stiles' jeep was in the driveway, but the cruiser was not.  Derek knocked at the door, a little anxiously.  He hadn't thought too much about what he was wearing today, and he wondered if maybe he should have.  The jeans were soft and old, and his t-shirt had a hole in the hem.

 

Stiles opened the door, looking wide-eyed and white-faced and _taller_.  He'd grown, grown his hair out, too, left it unruly.  Stiles' sweatpants were baggy, and he had on a Captain America hoodie that looked much too big for him. 

 

"You're here," Stiles blurted.  "I really want to hug you.  Is that okay?"

 

"Yeah," Derek answered.  Before the word had fully left his mouth, he had his arms full of Stiles.  Stiles wrapped him up and held on, a full-body sort of hug that Derek hadn't had in a _long_ time.  Derek wrapped him up in return.  He pressed his nose against Stiles' shoulder and breathed in, smelling anxiety and sweat and laundry detergent. 

 

"Dude, are you sniffing me?"

 

"Yeah, I am."

 

Stiles giggled, stuck his nose against Derek's neck, and inhaled obnoxiously.  Derek snorted.  Still, neither one of them pulled away until Derek heard Odin meowing unhappily. 

 

"Come on," Stiles finally said.  "I think your cat is trying to squeeze out the window."

 

"He forgets he weighs twelve pounds, yeah."

 

"Is that big for a cat?"

 

"It's big for a cat."  Derek realized he was smiling, and so was Stiles. They just stood on Stiles' porch, smiling at each other, until Stiles finally broke away and went to help Derek get things out of the car.  As they worked, Stiles rambled on about how he'd researched cats visiting a new home and getting used to a new environment, and that he'd tried to cat-proof the guest room as much as possible.  It turned out Stiles had found some old towels and laid them down in a corner of the room Derek would be sleeping in, and Derek set up Odin's litter box there.  Odin promptly went inside and peed for a solid minute.

 

"I guess he was holding it," Stiles said, grinning.  "Want to let him get used to the room, get something to eat?"

 

"I'm starving," Derek admitted.  He followed Stiles into the kitchen, and Stiles made him sit down while he moved around, preparing sandwiches for them both.  They sat at the kitchen table to eat it, Derek talking about the drive across the country and Stiles asking weird questions, as he usually did. 

 

"Man, I'd love a road trip," Stiles told him.  Under the table, their feet were close enough Derek knew that it would take just the slightest twitch to press his foot against Stiles'.  If Derek had taken off his shoes, he might've done it.  He felt weak, but not dirty, and that was a good change.  A surprising one.  "Just to get the fuck out of town and _go_."

 

"You'll graduate soon, right?  Would your dad let you go then?"

 

"Ah, well, see.  Actually." Stiles fidgeted.  "There was some canoodling, since I have, you know pretty verifiable mental health issues now.  Dad did some stuff and I basically graduated two months ago. The school board just let me take my finals, and since my test scores from junior year were so high, I guess they figured I was educated enough.  Lydia's excited she gets to be valedictorian, though."

 

Derek was shocked by that--the graduating early thing, not the valedictorian thing.  He knew Stiles was wickedly smart.  "I didn't know--you didn't say."

 

"Yeah, well, it's.  I didn't really know how to bring it up?  After everything, you know, high school just seemed like not a big deal.  But anyway, I don't think Dad's in a hurry to let me out of his sight, like, I have acceptance letters for college?  But we both kind of know I really shouldn't be by myself."

 

"Do you want to go to college?"

 

"Yeah, man.  I just. I want out of this fucking town.  I _love_ my dad and Scottie and my mom's buried here, but.  But I don’t think I'd mind not coming back for a few years, if not for them."

 

Derek got it. "Have you been getting better?"

 

" . . . Yeah.  I think."  Stiles looked down at the table, and his long fingers tapped at the surface nervously.  "I was maybe on the verge of doing something stupid, when you texted me that first time."

 

That made Derek catch his breath.  He reached across the table and put his hand over Stiles'.  He couldn't draw out mental pain and anguish the way he could help with physical pain; all Derek had to offer was support, friendship, and comfort.  He just hoped it would be enough.

 

"I think I'm doing better because of you," Stiles told him.

 

"That's funny," Derek said, sounding a little strangled.  "I was going to tell you the same thing."

 

Stiles' head jerked up, and his eyes were wet.  His hand turned over beneath Derek's, and then they were holding hands.  It was far too tight to be a romantic or flirtatious holding. No, this was the grasp of someone who knew they'd come too close to the edge of a cliff; they'd both almost fallen.

 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

The sheriff brought home a spaghetti dinner.  John often watched Stiles when Stiles' back was turned, like he was looking for clues to figure him out.  Derek tried to be helpful by washing up their dinner dishes afterward.  Stiles and his dad brought an artificial tree down from the attic, and Derek helped them carry down boxes of ornaments.  It had been years since he'd had a place with a real Christmas tree.  Laura had done one of those "string Christmas lights in a tree shape on the wall" thing the last time they were together, and it had been okay.

 

John refused to let Derek or Stiles touch the lights, so Stiles looked at some of the ornaments with Derek, told him about the important ones:  a handprint in clay that had been clumsily painted red, a sheriff's badge that had tacky green and red sparkling dots on the star's corners, a manger made out of popsicle sticks and tiny spools of thread.  John stepped back from the lit tree, nodded.  "I'm going to make popcorn," he said. "Derek, just do what Stiles says about ornament placement.  Trust me."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Low fat popcorn, Dad!"  Stiles called after him, already standing with the star for the top of the tree in his hands.  "This goes on last," he said.  "Grab the balls."  And then he grinned, because he was eighteen.

 

Stiles was _bossy_ about the decorating, and Derek went along with it--at first.  But after a certain point, Stiles pointed and said, "Red ball there."  Derek locked eyes with him--and hung a purple snowflake instead.

 

Stiles gaped at him, and flailed.  His eyes lit up.  "Oh, I see how it is.  Insubordination."

 

"You're not the boss of me," Derek replied.

 

Stiles burst into laughter, and Derek grinned.  He continued to give Stiles shit as they decorated the rest of the tree, until Stiles physically leaned all over Derek to try to reach a fat Santa Claus Derek had deliberately hung right next to a similarly fat Frosty the Snowman.  Stiles had hardly stopped laughing, and Derek was, too, and then Derek did something he hadn't planned to do:

 

He kissed Stiles' cheek.  Stile's skin was smooth and warm, and there was a mole right under Derek's bottom lip, he could feel it.

 

Stiles froze.  He stared at Derek.  He said, "Whoa."

 

Derek, similarly frozen, felt an apology bubble up on his lips.  He didn't voice it.  He carefully pulled away from Stiles, and fled upstairs to the guest room and his cat.


	2. Equilibrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slow climb upward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The reason I talked about Derek's family being multiracial is that I was thinking about the Nematon, and how something that old probably was guarded for generations, and generations, and generations. Go back that far in California and you're talking about the nematon being guarded by some sort of Native American people. So, in my head, Grandmother wasn't Grandmother Hale--she was Grandmother Laura Esther Nunes, who married a really white guy who probably had a name like James Cooper or something, who had Talia, Iris, and Peter. Talia Cooper married Joseph Hale, and they begat Laura, Derek, Cora, and Ben. Thus, the Hale land has only been Hale land since Talia changed her name to Hale. Before that, it was Nunes land, and before that, probably belonged to one of the many indigenous peoples of the region, who either died during American expansion westward, or married into Spanish or American colonizer families and remained in their ancestral homes. This note brought to you by "I read way too much about history sometimes."

Odin curled up in his lap and put his big paw on Derek's chest.  Derek plunged both hands into his fur and stroked him, trying to get his own heart rate under control.  Stiles had told him, among a dozen other cat-facts after he'd realized Derek had a pet, that petting a cat could lower your blood pressure and extend the life of the animal by lowering theirs, as well. 

 

Derek petted Odin a lot.  Just in case.

 

He focused on Odin, on Odin's tiny heartbeat so he wouldn't overhear whatever Stiles and his dad were talking about.  This was a necessary life skill for a werewolf, tuning out the unimportant or the private.  If there were a dangerous situation, he would eavesdrop, but this situation wasn't dangerous; it was just embarrassing.

 

He heard footsteps coming upstairs, a knock at the door. Stiles' heartbeat on the other side.  Derek told him to come in.  He was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, and Stiles came in, shut the door, and sat down near him, just close enough to pet Odin's head.

 

"You okay?" Stiles asked him.

 

"Big picture or because I kissed you?"  Derek asked, just ripping that bandage off.

 

"I know the answer for the big picture," Stiles told him.  "I meant--yeah.  Because you.  You kissed me.  Like, with your mouth.  I hope you're okay.  Did you like it?  Me?"

 

Derek stared at him.  "Of course I like you.  I've wanted to kiss you for a long time."

 

"Why didn't you?"

 

"Because you were seventeen, and I didn't want to be anything like Kate?"

 

"So," Stiles said, slowly, "You liked me before the nogitsune?"

 

"Of course I did.  Stiles--I trusted you with my _sister_."

 

That was the right thing to say, Derek guessed, because Stiles nodded, accepting that.  Derek decided--why not, the lid was off the jar.  "Did you like it?"

 

"Yeah," Stiles answered, immediately. "I mean, it surprised me because no way am I in your league, and I've had a thing for you for _years_."

 

Derek opened his mouth to answer the first part, but then had to address the second.  "Years?  Stiles, two years ago I was slamming you into things and threatening you.  With my teeth."

 

"And believe me, that led to some awkward, confused boners. Also, I never really believed you'd hurt me.  I mean, nobody who makes sure the teenage daughter of the local hunter family home so her new werewolf boyfriend won't eat her can be that dangerous, right?" 

 

Derek had forgotten about walking Allison home that night.  It hadn't been philanthropy, just--Scott might've tried again.  Making sure she got home okay was just the right thing to do, no matter who her family was. Had been?  Who knew whether Chris was going to keep things up or not.

 

Stiles kept going, "You had to know I was in to you.  Super smell and all."

 

"I knew," Derek said, slowly, "That you were attracted to me sexually.  A lot of people are."  He hoped that didn't make him sound egotistical, because, "I don't like it.  I feel like people are using my body without my permission, objectifying me."

 

"Oh--Oh, I'm sorry?  Uh--"

 

Derek put a hand on Stiles' shoulder.  "Let me finish, okay?  Because this is one of my--my Issues. Capital I."  He took a breath, waited for Stiles to nod.  "So I knew you were attracted to my body but that's not the same thing as liking _me_."

 

"I like _you_ ," Stiles exploded.  "I'm sorry, were you done?  I hope you were done, man, my Adderall is like gone by four in the afternoon, you know?"

 

Derek just smiled a little.  He liked the feeling in his chest now--it wasn't anxiety or fear or filth, just a nice feeling, a warm feeling.  It felt like when he'd sit in the band room and listen to Paige play her music, or when Stiles came through _again_ , somehow triumphing when he shouldn't have attempted whatever it was.

 

"Are we good?" Derek asked him.

 

"We are good," Stiles answered.  "We are good no matter how you answer this question, okay?  'Cause--listen, I know your history but mine is.  Mine--I, um."  His hands jittered on his knees, and he looked away.  "I lost my virginity to somebody who'd only been human for a few months and I was possessed at the time and it was in the basement of Eichen House and it makes me feel like I took advantage of her and also like I was used too.  Fuuuuck I couldn't even pop my cherry in a normal way.  Point is, um, enthusiastic consent is my bag, and it's a big bag, one I insist on being filled before anything . . . things happen.  Of any nature."  Stiles' face had gradually turned red, the more he talked.

 

Derek nodded, waited for him to actually ask the question.  He didn't have to wait long.  Stiles blurted out, "Do you wanna do that again?  The kissing?  Maybe with more--participation from me?"

 

"Yes," Derek told him.  " _Yes_ , but I--"  All the phrases he'd practiced flew out of his head, except one.  "I want to go really slow."

 

"Really slow, got it, yeah, no problem."  Stiles flashed him a thumbs up.

 

"No, really." Derek had to be serious, had to know Stiles was listening.  He put a hand on Stiles' arm, to focus him.  "Kate was my first and Jennifer was the last.  You know what Kate did, and I'm pretty sure Jennifer drugged me because I don't remember it clearly; it's all foggy and disorienting.  And between them I tried with--with a few people but one time I threw up, alright?  Another time I ran away.  I _want_ to be with you but my head is like a minefield, and I don't know where they all are yet."

 

 "The mines are metaphors," Stiles said.  "No, really, listen. They're metaphors.  Because if we're--doing something and we find one, it means we stop and slow down and figure out how to avoid it.  Nobody loses a limb."

 

It helped, he thought, to think about the landmines as metaphors.  So much in his life had been so bloody and violent, the _sex_ had been bloody and violent, at least in the aftermath, that it dawned on Derek that he was going to have to completely change his point of view about this, too.  He wanted to kiss Stiles again, on the cheek, and hold his hand, and make Stiles smile. 

 

For the first time in his life, Derek was in the position of power in the relationship, at least traditionally.  Derek was the werewolf, Derek was older, Derek had enough money to disappear completely.  It was Derek's responsibility, this time around, to be the careful one.  To be the one who made sure nobody got hurt. 

 

The thought settled into his brain, feeling like it didn't fit him, but like it _could_.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Revelations aside, getting used to the idea took time.  Stiles was game for a glacially slow pace.  They stayed up talking until all hours of the night, trying to be quiet enough not to disturb John's sleep.  Sometimes, Stiles didn't go up to his bedroom until the sky was pinking in the east, and Derek would follow shortly thereafter.  The guest bedroom was comfortable, lived in, covered by a quilt somebody's grandmother had probably made.  Derek ran his fingers over the stitches while he tried to sleep, thought about wrinkled hands tugging string through and through, making something.  He listened to John's steady sleeping heartbeat, his snoring; he listened to Stiles' quick breaths and smelled his fear as he laid down to sleep, listened to Stiles' heartbeat slow as exhaustion finally drove him to it.

 

Derek got in the habit of getting up to make breakfast no matter how late he'd gone to bed; Stiles joined him.  They had turkey sausage and turkey bacon in deference to the sheriff's cholesterol, and Stiles taught Derek how to make egg white omelets  with spinach and low-fat cheese.  John grumbled but ate what was put before him, and together they drank entire pots of coffee.   Stiles and Derek washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen once John left for work, then went to talk or watch TV in the living room or Stiles' room.

 

Sometimes, they fell asleep together in the middle of the day, and would wake to find Odin sprawled between them on his back, or curled up on Stiles' bony hip or across the small of Derek's back.  Once, passed out mid-episode of Cowboy Bebop, Derek woke to find that he'd spooned up against Stiles, and Stiles was sleeping so well and deeply that Derek just closed his eyes and went back under, too.

 

They went to the grocery store with John's debit card; Derek went with Stiles to give the jeep a deep cleaning that left it sparkling.  In the auto parts store, later, Derek stood still and obediently sniffed air fresheners until Stiles found one that didn't make him sneeze, and Stiles hung it from the jeep's rear view mirror with glee. 

 

In the evenings, they cooked meals together, and traded stories quid pro quo.  Stiles waggled his eyebrows and called Derek _Clarice_ and Derek rolled his eyes because if _either_ of them were capable of biting off someone's face, it was definitely not Stiles.

 

Stiles told him about his mom's apron, and showed it to him.  It had been hanging in the pantry since she died, Stiles said, except when Stiles took it out to wear it when he made one of her recipes.  It was purple and had stylized cat paw prints stitched along the hems.  "Mom loved cats," Stiles said, "But Dad's allergic, like, starts puffing up, it's crazy.  He can't do crazy cat lady calls unless he, like, does intravenous Allegra."

 

In return, Derek told Stiles about his Grandmother's recipe box, while they looked through Stiles' mother's recipes.  "It looked a lot like this.  The cards were yellow and stained and it smelled like bread.  Peter sometimes had me or Ben pick one at random and he'd try it.  Sometimes it was a complete disaster, but most of the time he was pretty good.  Mom was trying to talk Peter into going to culinary school."

 

Stiles found this hilarious.  After he'd finished laughing, he said,  "Okay then."  He swirled the box towards Derek.  "Go ahead, big guy, pick a card, any card, we'll give this a shot."

 

Derek grinned.  He muttered, "Please be meat," at the recipe box, and ran his fingers carefully over the edges of the cards.  He'd bet some of these had belonged to Stiles' grandmother; this was an inherited object.  Peter would've inherited Grandmother's baking things, Derek was sure.  The thought made him sad; he wondered if Peter thought about his mother, if Peter was ever ashamed.

 

He whipped a card out without looking at it, and handed it to Stiles.  "Oh my god," he said.  "Dill pickle soup?  Mom, why?"  He looked up at Derek, and they winced at each other.  "Maaaybe pick another card?"

 

"Yeah, let me--uh.  Clearly I was being too picky, asking for meat.  Maybe just--not dill pickles."  He chose another one, far from where the soup recipe had come from, in hopes that he was avoiding a dill pickle section.

 

"Nothing wrong with pickles, but _pickle soup--_   Oh, hey, pierogies," Stiles read after Derek handed over the new card.  "Okay.  This--is going to get complicated." 

 

In the end, it took about four hours and two trips to the grocery store to make the pierogies, but the finished product looked impressive and smelled amazing.  John got home right when Derek had finished cleaning the last of the shamefully huge pile of dishes, and Stiles put his mother's apron back in its spot in the pantry.

 

"It smells like your grandmother's house in here," John told Stiles, giving him a squeeze and kissing his temple.  "Please tell me I get to eat some of that."

 

"Just this once," Stiles told him.  "Derek picked it."

 

John grinned at him.  "I'm going in for a hug," John told him.  "Stilinskis are huggers."

 

"I--okay," Derek answered, and then John made good on it.  Derek returned the hug tentatively, rusty at this sort of paternal affection.  God, he'd missed it.  John clapped him on the back as he pulled away, went by the fridge to get a beer.

 

"I'm going to go wash up.  I'll just be a second."  John took off up the stairs, whistling.

 

Stiles watched him go.  He stepped closer to Derek and slid his arms around Derek's middle, and Derek, unsure what to do with this surplus of physical affection, wrapped his arms around Stiles in return.  Stiles whispered against Derek's shoulder.  "He used to drink a lot more.  He found out _I_ was drinking and we poured out all the booze and now he just has beer with dinner sometimes.  He did that for _me."_

_"_ He loves you," Derek whispered back.

 

"Yeah."  Stiles pressed his face into Derek's shoulder, shuddered.  "Ever wonder what we do to deserve some people?" 

 

Derek looked down at the vulnerable curve of Stiles' throat, at the constellations of freckles on his skin.  He thought about mapping them like the ancient Greeks had mapped the sky.  _This one is Lobos_ , Derek thought.  _For the wolf that changed your life._   In the living room, the timer on the Christmas tree clicked on, and lights filled the quiet up with a faint white-noise buzz, at least to Derek's ears.

 

"All the time," Derek told him.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

They became closer, closer, a thread spooling tighter, drawing them together.  It felt inevitable.  Derek and Stiles held hands when they watched TV.  They hugged or held each other randomly as they talked.  Stiles stopped asking for permission before touching Derek, but still made sure Derek saw him coming.  Stiles liked to stand behind Derek, hook his chin over Derek's shoulder, and wrap his arms around Derek's waist. He was getting softer in the middle.  It had been months since he'd worked out obsessively; he missed it somewhat, but not as much as he thought he might.

 

One night, when they'd gone to sleep at a decent hour, Derek woke with a start.  It took a few seconds to realize the sound that had woken him was moaning, a frightened, despairing sound.  Derek got out of bed, slipped into the hall, and into Stiles' bedroom.  It stank of sweat and anxiety and stress.  In the pale light of the moon, Derek could see Stiles writhing on the bed, sweat gleaming on his face and throat.

 

Derek came closer, touched his shoulder, and sat down beside him on the floor.  Stiles jerked, but didn't wake.

 

Derek started talking in a whisper.  He told Stiles, "I asked my dad once how he and mom fell in love.  He told me about how they met in college, in an English class, and he'd called her writing immature.  Nobody'd ever talked to her like that; she was--you have to understand, Stiles, Mom was _amazing_.  At everything.  She was beautiful and kind and so _strong_ , and Dad just--he _worshiped her_.  But they got together because he called her writing immature.  Mom went and edited the piece and slammed it down on his desk in their next class and dared him, basically to do it again.  He _did_. He gave her _pointers_.  They started meeting at the library and having coffee and dinner and then--well. They had Laura.  Then they got married."

 

Stiles' breathing evened out, and Derek sat quietly for a while, watching him.  The smell of anxiety wasn't gone yet, so Derek dredged his mind for something Stiles didn't know yet.  He told Stiles, "There was this kid who called me on all my shit and I felt like he could see through me like I was made out of glass.  I've fallen for him a little."

 

Life wasn't a fairy tale; that little story did not magically ease Stiles to sleep.  So Derek sighed, and told Stiles about a family trip to the beach, and how annoying it was to get sand out of claws.

 

Eventually Stiles' scent eased, but Derek stayed where he was.  It was only an hour or so until the sheriff woke up and Derek went to make him breakfast; he might as well wait it out here, make sure Stiles didn't suffer from night terrors again.

 

When John's alarm clock went off in the morning, Derek got up and tried to silently slip from the room.

 

John was just stepping into the hallway when Derek stepped out.  Derek froze, taking in John's sleepy frown, his boxers and t-shirt, the towel draped over his shoulder. 

 

"Sir," Derek started. 

 

John held up a  hand.  "Not before coffee," he told Derek, and shuffled into the bathroom, leaving Derek to retreat downstairs to start what he hoped would be the best breakfast he'd ever made.

 

Stiles hadn't come downstairs by the time John did, dressed for work.  He draped his belt over the back of his chair, as was his habit, and fixed himself a cup of coffee.  Derek kept his mouth shut until John had finished the first cup.

 

John took a piece of turkey bacon and said, "Alright.  Now you can tell me what you were going to say."

 

"I heard him last night," Derek blurted.  "Night terrors.  I just--I just sat by his bed and talked to him.  It worked on the phone, talking to him. That's all."

 

John's mouth opened, closed, finally quirked into a small, wry smile.  "It wasn't what it looked like?"

 

Derek shook his head. 

 

"Well," John told him.  "Even if it _was_ what it looked like, Stiles could do a whole lot worse."

 

That was more approval than Derek had _ever_ expected to get, and he put a little extra cheese in John's omelet.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

On December 20th, John asked Derek to go to the grocery store, handed him a list and some cash, and then yelled at Stiles to go rake the yard, like he'd asked.  Derek was certain John hadn't asked Stiles to rake the yard; they'd been living on top of each other for almost a week now, and if Derek had known John wanted it done, he'd probably have done it himself. 

 

The list was oddly specific-- _this_ brand of chicken soup, not that, and check the labels for sodium content.  This type of apple, but only if they smelled good, if not, then _this other_ type of apple was acceptable.   Derek was frowning, hard, and had to restrain himself from slamming things into his trunk once the trip was done. 

 

When Derek turned up the street to the Stilinski house, he could smell meat cooking.  His stomach rumbled; he liked meat, in general; craved it, closer to the moon.  Tonight was a full moon, and he just wanted to sink his teeth into a steak, or about a dozen burgers.  John couldn't eat much red meat, though, and so Derek was resigned to a meal of boneless, skinless chicken breast and vegetables.  It would be with John and Stiles, so that was alright.

 

Derek loaded the groceries (reusable bags, courtesy of Stiles) onto his arm, and headed into the house.  Stiles met him at the door with a grin.  Derek sniffed.

 

"Wait," he said, "Is that you grilling?"

 

"It's _Dad_ grilling," Stiles answered.  "Come on." He took some of the bags, even though he didn't have to, and they went into the kitchen together.  Derek was learning how Stiles organized the kitchen, so they worked together to put things away.   
  
"That was a seriously annoying list," Derek told him.  "Were you trying to be annoying with it?"

 

"Nope," Stiles answered, grinning and actually--vibrating a little.  "Just needed you out of the house for a while."

 

Derek blinked, frowned.  Took a breath, and smelled--

 

"Cora?"

 

"Yeah," Stiles said. "She flew up."

 

Derek's heart pounded.  "What does she need?  Is she in trouble?" 

 

"No, big guy--she--she flew up for you.  It's--"  Stiles wrung his hands, suddenly smelling of nerves.  "You're a Christmas baby.  We thought--we thought we'd do something for you, for your birthday, even if it was a few days early."

 

Derek stood there a moment.  That's how long it took for his brain to parse what Stiles had just said.  He slumped against the counter, exhaling a word that might've been a question, but came out more like a disbelieving syllable.  "What . . .?"

 

"Is it okay?"  Stiles asked him.

 

Derek swallowed.  "I don't know yet," he told Stiles.  "But I want to find out."

 

Stiles grinned, and finally moved forward to give him a hug, a kiss on the cheek.   "Stay here," Stiles told him, and stepped outside.  When he opened the back door, the smell of grilling meat came in more strongly, and then, Cora stepped in.  She looked good, Derek thought, she looked _beautiful_ , strong and happy and at peace.  Tanned, too, from the summer she'd gone back to.

 

"Hey, brother," Cora said, sounding as awkward as Derek felt.  Neither one of them knew how to be siblings to each other anymore. 

 

"Hey," Derek answered, still stunned.  "You--flew all the way up here--?"

 

"Yeah.  Sat in an airplane and smelled every single fart between Lima and San Francisco."  She stepped closer.  "Stiles told me you were staying here for the holidays.  That's good.  You shouldn't be alone.  You shouldn't be alone on your _birthday_."

 

 _I didn't kill our family,_ Derek wanted to tell her.  He bit his tongue--not yet.  He took a step closer to, and then they were hugging one another. 

 

When they'd reunited before, when the alpha pack was in town, after the night when she was feral, they hadn't hugged.  Cora had felt prickly and Derek hadn't felt he'd earned it.  She'd told him, that day, that he wasn't worth being locked in a vault for two months, and she was right; he wasn't worth that.  But maybe he was worth an uncomfortable airplane ride. 

 

In his head, Dr. Norris let out a cheer.

 

John had cooked a prodigious amount of meat.  He and Stiles ate like the normal humans they were, and watched in fascination as Derek and Cora put down burger after burger. They had cake without candles.  Stiles had found someone to airbrush the ridiculous Three Wolf Moon graphic onto the frosting.  Cora cackled at the image, held a lighter in her hand, and told Derek to make a wish. 

 

Sitting there with his sister, Stiles, and John, Derek couldn't wish for a single thing for himself.  He blew out the lighter without making a wish, but when his eyes met Stiles' over the table, Derek thought, _I want him to be well._

 

 As the moon rose and the sun set, the temperature dropped outside.  Cora, restless, went to the back door.  "Come on," she said.  "Derek.  _Der_.  Come on.  Let's _run_."

 

"Should be safe," Stiles told him.  "Just come back."

 

"Always," Derek answered.  He smiled at Stiles, and followed his sister out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned for this to go a lot longer, and for Stiles and Derek to share their litanies of not-guilt with one another "on camera" as it were, but this felt like a good, hopeful place to end things.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I haven't posted fanfic since about 2004, and I've enjoyed writing and putting this out there. I appreciate tremendously all the subscriptions, bookmarks, kudos, and kind words!


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